<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>guess i'm a coward, i just want to feel alright by UncrownedKing</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28113255">guess i'm a coward, i just want to feel alright</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncrownedKing/pseuds/UncrownedKing'>UncrownedKing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sanders Sides (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, HE IS CRYING, and i was also sad, do i still think it's good writing? yes, here you go, i didn't think there was enough plot-less roman angst, is this a vent fic? yes, so I wrote this, this is literally just roman crying alone in a house like idk what else to tell you</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:00:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>855</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28113255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncrownedKing/pseuds/UncrownedKing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman is too much, so much, and yet nothing at all. </p><p>a.k.a., Roman cries alone aesthetically.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>guess i'm a coward, i just want to feel alright</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There was something bittersweet about being in control of the Imagination. Roman watched the chandelier above him dangle, glistening light and dripping crystals like himself, like tears. He had his hands on his chest, lying back on the fainting couch in the foyer of this home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a castle. He wasn’t only a stereotype. And the gothic manor he’d created for himself in some other story felt so much more the atmosphere of the wells of emotion he’d been feeling. It was isolating, claustrophobic yet expansive, so very empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Earlier, when he’d been wracked with sobs, he could hear his own voice bounce around the walls of the empty house. Atop a hill. The wild was whispering outside, a storm on the horizon. Roman pulled at one of the silk gloves he was wearing, eyes still fixated on the chandelier if only to fixate on something other than the dread in his stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was oh so large. So all encompassing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This must be a flaw, a problem with himself, that he took happiness in hearing his own sobs. It was simply necessary to hear something echo back, though, and no one could fault him for wanting a response to his misery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he’d tried to explain this to any of the others, they wouldn’t understand. Who else bears as heavy a weight? To be creation and motivation in one? To be the pride that wishes to be displayed, simultaneously the product on the pedestal, even the desire for others to view and relish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was so much Roman was, so much he had to do. His grip on this responsibility was slipping, dropping his knees under the tremendous weight of the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was never to say that anyone else wasn’t high strung, he was sure the others were often stressed by what they advised Thomas on. But it felt as though they never understood. Janus’ actions spoke as much, Patton’s flippant reactions toward Roman’s devastation. Even Logan’s anger, easily casting doubt on Roman’s purposes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He yanked the glove off and tossed it aside, trying to work the other off. He had eyeliner on; these were white silk gloves. Sure, he could re-create them, but he just didn’t want to dirty them. Slowly, he wipes his face with his bare hands, rubbing the residual water and wet eyeliner into his own palms as he stood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was a set he’d made on the spot, a spitball of an idea. He was wearing a red slip and a fuzzy white night robe, which he supposed was fit for the occasion. He didn’t feel that the regalia of his princely garb truly captured the desolation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The house was large, the ceiling even in the foyer lifted with glass plating the top. He could see the moon’s glow behind the clouds. Pushing through. Attempting to shine. Blocked again by the thick darkness of the oncoming storm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Roman fought back a sob, throat tight as he looked around toward the stairs. It was late and he had a headache from crying. He should sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Virgil had stood up for him. It was pleasant. Roman had almost given up hope on his own hopes, for love, for his dreams, even creating better content. It seemed that things were rarely good enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That day at the mall, though, that day gave him something like hope. Perhaps Virgil would understand, maybe even care. What a quaint thought, a simple desire, one that should be true. It must be, he had evidence, that’s what Logan always said was needed in deductive reasoning. Why was it so hard for him to believe, then? Did Roman truly believe that….no one would care?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He started for the stairs, holding the cold railing as he ascended. The foyer had been tiled but his feet were bare and warmed by the plush red carpets of the house. He walked up, up the spiraling stairs and out down the hall of the second floor. At the end, he could see wide windows, trees outside blowing in the growing breeze, a bed just inside with a perfect view of the yard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he stepped foot into the bedroom, the door clicked shut behind him without him even closing it. With careful hands, he took off his nightgown and set it on the cushion at the foot of the large poster bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was such a large bed. Roman felt so very small. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know what he was doing. He was acting a scene as catharsis for how so lonely he’d been feeling, but the bed was large, and there were too many pillows for his one head. He didn’t want much, he thought. He only wanted for the weights on his shoulders to be lifted. He only wanted to breathe again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Roman curled up beneath the blanket as the candles were extinguished, again, out of thin air. The moonlight seeped in just enough for Roman to see the beginnings of rain fall outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How could he explain that? What a selfish desire, what an impossible one, what a foolish boy. And who would ever understand?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>